


I Saw the Sun Tonight

by thornmallow



Category: Tron: Legacy (2010)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-10
Updated: 2011-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thornmallow/pseuds/thornmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surviving in exile isn't easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Saw the Sun Tonight

_I was searching_

 _my eyes were closed_

 _I was drowning so far from home_

 _You threw flowers into the sea_

 _and every flower came floating right back to me_

——

She can barely walk at first. Processing anything—data, emotions, how to put one foot in front of the other—is too much. For the first few cycles, she sits and watches the Creator work. Flynn manipulates the Grid effortlessly, even in the Outlands; he carves a home for them out of nothing. Energy flows from his fingers like rivers from an ocean; he wills it to be so and it is so. He insists that she refer to him as ‘Flynn’ and not ‘the Creator’, insists that he had only a small hand in her making.

As she stands in the finished space—a luminous enclave with bright white tiles, elegant furniture and piles of what she soon learns are books—she cannot understand it as anything but the work of a god.

“C’mere,” he says, picking up one of the books; it’s a heavy, dark thing that falls open in his lap. Words decorate the pages, which she grasps easily enough; it’s the book’s form that mystifies her. The leather is marbled, feeling both soft and tough under her palm, and the pages have a curious smell—something organic, watery, foreign.

“This is an artifact from your world,” she says.

“Totally analog, man,” he replies, nodding. “Well, as much as it gets in here, anyway.”

She sits with him on the couch, leans over to read along as he begins to pronounce the words aloud. The stories are short—Flynn calls them fables—and deal with topics like jealousy, greed and betrayal.

“They’re meant to be instructive,” he explains. “I was trying to upload a library for all of you. I think I should have made it a higher priority.”

Quorra listens intently, learning all she can, soaking up the scenes and their meanings as though drinking from a well of energy. The effort distracts her from the overwhelming sense of loss and rage in her heart that makes her want to run from this safe, stark room and back to the city for another ill-fated confrontation with Clu. Flynn has already stopped her from doing this several times. She is the last, he says. If Clu captures her, the miracle will die.

Eventually Quorra’s gaze strays from the page, to lock with Flynn’s. The book is merely a prop for her edification; he does not look at it while he spins the tale.

“You all right, Q?” he says, pausing when he realizes that she’s suddenly laser-focused on him.

“No,” she says, seeing little reason to lie.

Flynn shuts the book. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

He’s fighting it, too. She sees it plainly in his eyes, and in the frantic way he works and paces and spends hours adjusting the code for a plate or a chandelier.

“Finish the story,” she urges. She takes the book from him and quickly finds the proper place.

He smiles and brings them both back to a world of sour grapes, dogs and their reflections, tortoises outsmarting hares.

She supposes that they are tortoises, trying to wait, trying to rely on the hare’s overconfidence. But she can’t imagine that Clu ever stops for a nap. She can’t imagine that he stops at all.

Flynn’s voice becomes hoarse. He reads the entire volume and begins to sound slightly manic. Quorra touches his arm.

“Let’s rest a while,” she says. Flynn blinks as though awakening from a fugue.

She takes the books from him and replaces them on the shelf. Now that the storytelling is done, Flynn falls silent. He folds his hands in his lap and waits for her.

Gently, Quorra pulls Flynn up from the couch and leads him to his room.

She sits down with him on the bed, legs folded one under the other. He leans back against the headboard, shuts his eyes, breathes deep. His posture is wilted, crumpled; the lines around his mouth are creased with stress. Flynn begins to shake.

Quorra doesn’t react immediately. She operates on instinct, working from some intrinsic, empathic sense of how to respond. He needs a moment. When his shoulders stop trembling, she reaches for him. She holds both of his hands and does not speak.

Flynn opens his eyes. He squeezes her hands and exhales a weak, shuddering breath. But the longer they sit together, the more even his breathing becomes. His expression clears, softens. Quorra wonders what he’s thinking, but asking would break the gentle silence between them, would introduce too many sharp-edged uncertainties.

Instead, she lies down. She feels his body curl around hers; his arms cinch her waist; his cheek rests against the nape of her neck.

She feels the rapid thrum of his heart and the blood rushing hotly beneath his skin.

“Are you all right?” she says.

“No,” he replies. “But I’m better.”

This is all they can do for each other, and it is both more and less than enough.

——

 _You give me strength_

 _You give me grace_

 _You give me every little thing I ever craved_

 _You hold the power, you are the light_

 _You are the one I came so far to find_


End file.
